Paratrooper
by littlelunaeve
Summary: Written by VF142 For the now abandoned Roughneck Forum
1. Airborn

Airborne!  
>Martin Guiterrez<p>

The 101st Airborne had been in the British Isles since September of 1943. They had been training for most of that time for their drop which was three days away, June 5, 1944.

One of them, a stout fellow from the Bronx named Private Eddie Caparzo was clustered with several of his Airborne pals at a pub in London. "Hey, McDowell, what in the hell does the MG in MG34 mean again?"

"Maschinegewher, machinegun." said Corporal Miles McDowell, a 2nd generation Irish immigrant with a pronounced accent.

"How'd you know that?" said Mason, a lanky nineteen year old from West Virginia.

"My wife's German." said McDowell, "Her family came here after World War I so she grew up in America."

A group of soused British paratroopers were at the table near them. They appeared to be downing their ale with increasing frequency and it appeared to be soaking through a few of their hides.

"You're wife's a bloody Jerry." said one of them, a youngish kid named Cromwell, "Better make sure she isn't a spy for Hitler."

At this McDowell stood up. "He ain't worth it." said PFC Vargas, a short but fairly muscled youth. He was sort of a leader among the younger troops and in fact a lot of them wouldn't have been surprised if Vargas wound up either a sergeant or with a commission by war's end.

"Take it back ye bleedin' Saxon or His Magesty's Army is going to be short one soldier before the bloody landing!" said McDowell.

The drunken Englishman paid no heed and resumed his taunt, "She's probably selling secrets to Hitler right now..."

"Oh lay off Perry," said one of the Englishmen, the most sober of them. The Americans weren't all sober either. "Here," said the man, introducing himself as Ficketts, "I'll buy you drink. Perry's just a little drunk."

"How appropriate, Kraut lover." said Perry Cromwell, swaying unsteadily, his ale coursing through his system.

At this McDowell charged, his fist making contact with Perry's jaw, knocking him to the ground. "Fight!" said one of the others, "Hey fight!"

Over a dozen British paratroopers that had been sitting with Cromwell moved in to watch. Vargas came in and said, "Break it up."

"C'mon McDowell!" said Mason.

"Kick his a$$!" said Caparzo. The Englishman fighting McDowell had been throwing snide comments meant for the Americans to overhear throughout the night, McDowell, the most incindiary of the group, kept throwing comments back.

The fight was broken up when Ficketts, who wore no badges of rank, came in and bodily yanked McDowell off of Cromwell, who was bleeding through his mouth and a split lip. McDowell didn't get off easy either, there was a black mark under his right eye and his nose was bleeding.

"For heaven's sake!" said Ficketts, "The enemy's the bloody Krauts, not each other!"

"Oh ease up,Ficketts, I didn't mean those comments literally. I was just..." said Cromwell.

"That's SERGEANT Ficketts to you," said Ficketts, though he was three inches shorter than Cromwell, his raised voice made him appear to be ten feet tall, "You said those comments to bait these Yanks into a fight. You baited one. That's one thing to start a fight, but to insult one's wife, mother, or family, that's quite another. Apologize."

"And you." Ficketts said, "What do those stripes on your arm mean?"

"Corporal sir." said McDowell.

"How the bloody hell did you get those stripes if you knock around some lad who doesn't know better?" said Ficketts, "Now shake hands."

Both did, grudgingly. "C'mon, McDowell, let's get out of here." said Vargas, the calm one in the group.

Elsewhere, the leader of 1st Platoon, Lieutenant Jean Razak, was enjoying a quiet evening with his wife. She had been able to get to England to spend some time with her husband and this was the final night they could be together.

"Jean," said Miriam Razak, "What's wrong?"

"Miriam, in three days I'm going into action." said Razak, "I'm just a little worried I'm not coming back out again."

"Jean, you've lived this long through the war, you'll come back out." said Miriam. This was the Jean Razak none of his men saw. A family man, an educator. If he were in civilian clothing and back in the States, one would think of him first as an educator, not a warrior.

Elsewhere, Staff Sergeant Francis Brutto was standing beside a Private Max Brutto, his son, drafted into service and now serving with Company A of the 1st Division, Rangers. This was a side of the tough veteran paratrooper few ever saw, the side of a loving father and loyal husband.

"Max, remember what I told you." Brutto said.

"Yeah dad, check my gear and make sure my action's clean..." said Max.

"No Max, I meant remember that a frightened soldier is a defeated soldier, that means control your fear. Fear is natural, but it can be controlled." said Brutto. His tone softened, a tone he usually reserved for his wife and his son, "I love you son."

"I love you too dad." said Max. Both tried to forget that they were days away from combat and possible death, but the thought still lingered. At the moment, though, they were just a father and a son looking out at the stars.

The day before the drop was a tense time for all. Men were checking their equipment, their weapons, and most importantly thier parachutes. PFC Jeff Gossard, the man on the BAR, was nervously going through all his equipment to cover his nervousness.

Sergeant Brutto was rushing the platoon out of the barracks and to the airstrip. Once they were aboard the C-47, Lieutenant Razak said, "Alright boys, this is it. Our objective is to secure or destroy the bridges of the canals near Normandy. We need to deny Rommel any access to the bridges so he can't reinforce his beach defenses or counterattack. That pretty much covers it, so land safely, I'll see you at the rendezvous point."

Vargas lit a cigarette. "Funny," he said, "I didn't use to smoke before the war."

"That's your fifth one in the past three hours." said McDowell.

"You been keeping track?" said Vargas.

"Someone has to." said McDowell.

"So, you're married huh?" said Vargas.

"Yeah." said McDowell. He produced a picture, on the chain of his dogtags, that was covered by a small lockett. "My wife gave that to me the night before I shipped out to England."

The woman in the picture was probably in her early twenties, as was McDowell. Her hair was a light shade of brown and her eyes were dark. "Where's she now? said Vargas.

"She's home." said McDowell, "In San Diego, where she's studying literature at the university there."

Corporal Johnnie Rico had his own thoughts, his own worries. He remembered Carmen Ibanez, the woman he tried everything to impress. As far back as he could remember, he was in love with her. She was a free spirit, no doubt, as evidenced by her barnstorming adventures. She flew cross country in a decomissioned S.E. 5 aircraft and it was her love of flying that made Rico become a paratrooper because he had failed to become a pilot and thereby impressed Carmen. She now served with the Woman's Air Corps, ferrying aircraft from the Lockheed plant, to airbases around the country. He was reading a letter from her to get his mind off the jump.

He had no sooner read the 'Dear Johnnie,' line when the aircraft bucked wildly. Several 88 mm rounds bucked the C-47 like a childs toy. "Drop now." said Razak.

Brutto opened the door and the first squad jumped clear. McDowell, Vargas, Caparzo, Gossard, and Mason all disappeared out the door, their chutes opening. Then it was Rico's squad jumping. The blossoming parachutes seemed to fill the skies of Norhthern France...


	2. Drop Zone

Drop Zone  
>Martin Guiterrez<p>

Razak's platoon was scattered into the wind by the German anti-aircraft fire and the pilot's evasive maneuvers.

It was the time it took McDowell to touch down that was the longest interval of time in his life. He had landed in an open cow pasture and he ran for cover and assembled his rifle.

He heard two clicks nearby. He answered with two more of his own and two more clicks replied. Vargas came out of the woodwork, his rifle already assembled. "See anyone else?" said McDowell.

"No." Vargas said, shaking his head.

Vargas turned on his flashlight while McDowell pulled out a map. "The rally point is six miles north of where we should of landed. Let's round up anyone else we can find and get over there. This drop is screwed. I don't know if any other guys from our platoon survived."

"Someone's coming." said Vargas, leveling his rifle.

"Don't shoot." said a voice, "It's me, Gossard."

Gossard came out of the woods, his Browning Automatic Rifle partially assembled. "Goss, get that BAR assembled pronto." said McDowell, "We're going to the rallying point."

"What about the others?" said Gossard.

"I've looked around, I haven't found anyone." said McDowell.

The three paratroopers proceeded stealthily through the woods, making their way to a rallying point. These three had no way of knowing if anyone from 1st Platoon of Fox Company, Razak's Roughnecks, was still alive.

The rallying point already had two dozen paratroopers from various platoons and companies in the area. Among them were S/Sgt. Brutto, Cpl. Rico, and PFC Caparzo.

"Are you guys a sight for sore eyes." said McDowell.

Throughout the day, more men arrived. The men numbered apporximately sixty-eight, an ad hoc group from the missed drops scattered everywhere. Straggling in came an officer, with forty more men from an assortment of units, "Who's the senior man."

"I am." said Brutto, "Sgt. Francis Brutto, 1st Platoon, Delta Company."

"Colonel Perez, 1st Division." said Perez. "How many men are here?"

"Sixty-eight so far, sir, sixty-two standing, six wounded." said Brutto.

"Form up those sixty-two men with my unit." said Perez, "I'm forming a mixed unit, we're going to Romelle. There's a bridge there that Rommel may use to get his armor to Normandy and push back the landing force."

Taking the bridge was a relatively easy matter. The German garrison was an understrength company. Most of its number had been sent to reinforce the Atlantic wall, leaving a skeleton watch behind. 'They were neutralized easily, almost too easily,' thought Perez, as his men took positions around the bridge, 'holding this is going to be another matter entirely.'


	3. Clash of arms

A Clash of Arms  
>Martin Guiterrez<p>

Waiting, the endless waiting. Night watch was the worst watch of all, thought McDowell. The shadows, for all one might know, might contain Germans or even a Tiger tank for all you knew.

A silhoutte approached, it was close, about 200 yards. McDowell silently trained his rifle. The figure had a German helmet. McDowell lined up his sights and fired, the Garand bucking in his hand. He saw the distant German crumple forward. It was then McDowell realized the German had company, at least eleven other Wermacht soldiers were accompanying this man, possibly a scout.

"Gossard, you're with me." he said, to the other man in the outpost, Vargas was remaining, "Vargas, spread the word, enemy recon, possibly night attack. Gossard, cover him."

Gossard leveled the Browning Automatic Rifle, cocked the weapon and fired it on full automatic. Several of the Germans took cover and McDowell tapped Vargas on the back, "Go Vargas!"

With suppressing fire from Gossard, the Germans were kept down until the twenty round clip went empty. Several raised their heads, taking shots at the running Vargas. One of them was lining up the running man in his sights, Gossard rammed in the clip, cocked the weapon, brought it around and fired. The German's body shuddered under the impact of the .30 caliber rounds from the BAR.

The Germans charged the position and Gossard was driving them back with the BAR until the weapon jammed. McDowell pulled a grenade, yanked the pin and threw it. The blast threw two Germans into the air, one of them landing less than fifty yards from their position.

Gossard unjammed his BAR just as the German drew his Luger pistol, he was obviously the Wermacht sergeant in charge of the squad as evidenced by the pistol.

McDowell leveled his Garand and squeezed the trigger, the German rolled backward, a hole blown through his chest. The Germans were upon them when suddenly more shots, none of them originating from either Gossard or McDowell rang out.

Brutto, Rico, Mason, Caparzo and the rest of the unit were there. The entire mixed unit at the Romelle bridge was now awake. "Cease fire, cease fire!" came the shout.

The men saw the bodies of five dead Germans were strewn around the bridge. Gossard took the Luger from the dead German and extended the butt end to McDowell. "I don't want it." said McDowell.

"Hey, he was your man, you earned it." said Gossard.

"Yeah," said McDowell, quickly regaining composure, "I'll take it."

Gossard handed McDowell the Luger. "Why'd you say you didn't want it at first." Gossard said.

"Every time I have to pull the trigger on that rifle, I feel a step farther away from my wife." said McDowell.

"You're doing this for her." said Colonel Perez, who heard what sounded like a small morale fire.

"Yes sir." said McDowell, sitting down, his rifle across his knees, "I just keep seeing that guy's eyes right after I shot him. His eyes betrayed one moment of pure abject terror, before I pulled the trigger. How's Cybil gonna feel about that? I can't keep it in forever. She's the only person I could talk to honestly about this kind of thing. My father would say I was going soft, he was a major in World War I with the British army."

"Cybil's your wife?" said Perez.

"Yes sir." said McDowell.

"Do you have a picture." Perez said. McDowell showed him Cybil's picture. She was a young woman, in her early twenties, with shoulder length chesnut hair and dark eyes.

"Sometimes she's the only reason I keep fighting. I don't want to think about what would happen if the Krauts win here and storm America." said McDowell.

"That's what happens in war, we do things we don't normally do. Killing is one of them." said Perez, he walked off.

McDowell sat there, looking first at the dead German he had killed not more than an hour ago, then at the Luger that he would have used to kill him and Gossard, and then Cybil's picture. It helped his conscience somewhat, knowing he had fought for her, for her safety. So ended the first clash of arms...


	4. Chapter 4

Screaming Eagles  
>Martin Guiterrez<p>

The mixed unit led by Colonel Perez had been holding the Romelle bridge for six days since D-Day began. The unit was composed of men from the various units 101st Airborne and 82nd Airborne divisions, part of the misdrops.

The fact that only six men from his stick were with him was a dim and distant memory as far as Corporal Johnnie Rico was concerned. He had a four man patrol under him and he was leading them around the edge of a meadow of tall grass and flowers. The only man from his stick with him was the unit sniper, nineteen year old William Mason of West Virginia.

PFC Charlie Dale of Minnesota, 82nd Airborne, was behind Rico, carrying the bazooka along with his M1 Thompson submachinegun. Rico, on point, took one hand off his M1 Carbine and raised it. The four men hunkered down in the grass as the sound of a vehicle was heard. Rico raised his head a tad and saw a German halftrack going through the field. He tapped Charlie Dale on the back, who nodded, raised his bazooka and fired.

The rocket struck the engine housing squarely, exploding, and causing flames to fan out over the hood. Mason was first to pick off the German machinegunner atop the halftrack with a shot to the head with his Springfield M1903A4 rifle with telescopic sights.

Six Germans clambered out of the burning wreckage of the halftrack and Rico and Charlie Dale opened up on them, Dale emptying an entire magazine into the Germans, killing four of them with Rico bagging the other two with his carbine.

"Search them for intelligence and lets get back to base." Rico said.

Dale and Mason searched the bodies finding documents and Dale was placing a Hitler Youth knife onto his combat webbing.

They returned to base to find it being pounded by 88mm cannons towed into position by German vehicles. "Down damn it!" said Corporal McDowell, motioning Rico's patrol into a slit trench.

The bombardment was causing nerves to rattle through the unit. PFC Eddie Caparzo was hunkered down next to McDowell. Caparzo's heart appeared to be threatening to burst its way out of his ribcage.

It was then that a shell went off, not more than three meters from where Charlie Dale was crouched. The shock had just about paralyzed him with terror about how close that shell had came.

The shelling continued like this for almost an hour until the German gunners ceased firing, awaiting ammunition. Soon an eerie quiet descended on the men. It was so quiet that they could hear the sound of footsteps.

Rico leveled his carbine at the noise, it was coming from behind them. Lieutenant Jean Razak, another member of their stick, was standing before him with two other soldiers, one from the 82nd, the other a man from a colored regiment with a red cross armband.

"Doc LeCroix," said the black man, extending one hand to Rico, who shook it, "medic. Where are the wounded?"

Rico led them to a clutch of walking wounded, and Doc began his minstrations.

"Who else is here?" said Razak.

"Caparzo, McDowell, Brutto, Mason, Gossard and Vargas, sir." said Rico.

"Who's your CO?" said Razak.

"Colonel Perez, 82nd Airborne, he patched us into a mixed unit sir." said Rico, shouldering his carbine.

There was another call, "Someone's coming." said Gossard, training his BAR on the source of movement.

"Don't shoot." came out,a female voice in French. Gossard lowered his BAR.

"Does anyone here speak French?" said Razak.

"I do, sir." said McDowell.

"Tell her to show herself and ask her if she speaks english." said Razak.

McDowell obeyed and the woman showed herself. She was young, auburn haired, about twenty six or twenty seven years of age, and she was carrying a stolen Schmeisser MP-40 submachinegun, behind her was a young man, maybe sixteen or seventeen, also similarly armed.

The woman replied, "Anne Marselle, French Resistance. Who is in command here?"

McDowell looked to Razak, who nodded, "Colonel Perez, 82nd Airborne."

"Paratroopers." she said, knowingly.

"Rico, got get Perez here." said Razak.

"Yes sir." said Rico.

Colonel Perez came in with Rico in tow, "Colonel," said the Resistance fighter, "We have news of a German buildup just outside of the town."

"Strength?" said Perez.

"We weren't able to get an exact count, Pierre," she said, indicating the young man standing a few steps behind her, "says he saw at least two Tiger tanks, we were unable to count all the infantry."

"Oui monseur." said Pierre.

"We will attempt to delay the German attack long enough for you to prepare as best you can." said Marselle.

"There must be a way to gather some intelligence while your at it." said Perez, "I'll send two of my men with you."

"Colonel, I can't ask you to do that. We've been fighting the Germans for years, we can take care of it, we will return to you." said Marselle. As she turned to leave, Pierre said something.

"What did he say?" said Perez.

"He says good luck to you, Screaming Eagles." said McDowell, and with a wry grin, he added, "You aren't even part of the 101st sir."


End file.
